Rivals (27 page)

    Lucky things, thought Sarah. I wish someone would put me out of my misery.

    'I love your dog,' she said to Henry Hampshire. 'I saw a beautiful springer the other day with a long tail.'

    'Good God,' said Henry Hampshire, appalled, and strode off leaving her in mid-sentence.

    'I thought you said you hadn't shot before,' said Tony as they walked back to the house.

    'Not pheasant,' said Freddie, 'but I was the top marksman at Bisley for two years.'

    Entering the garden, they passed two yews cut in the shape of pheasants.

    'You couldn't even hit those today, could you, Paul?' said Tony nastily.

    After so much open air and exercise, everyone fell on lunch. There was Spanish omelette cut up in small pieces on cocktail sticks, and a huge stew, with baked potatoes, and a winter salad, and plum cake steeped in brandy and Stilton, with masses of claret and sloe gin.

    Freddie was in terrific form. His curls had tightened in the rain. Looking more like a naughty cherub than ever, he kept his end of the table in a roar with stories of his army career and his first catastrophic experiences out hunting.

    Henry Hampshire, who had a lean face and turned-down eyes, shed his gentle paternalistic smile on everyone, even Sarah.

    'D'yer really think Springers look better with long tails?' he asked her.

    Sarah had a lot to drink at lunch. She looks like a Renoir, thought Tony, all blonde curls, huge blue eyes and languor.

    'Have you made up your mind about joining Corinium?' he asked her.

    'Yes, I'd love to. I'll come in and sign the contract tomorrow.'

    'Only a three months' trial,' said Tony, who never took chances, 'but I think you'll love it. This will be a very exciting

    year.'

    Christ, I'd like to take her to bed, he thought. Cameron

    was being very uptight at the moment.

    'Not too worried about me getting you on the telecasting couch?' he added, lowering his voice.

    Sarah went crimson. 'Cameron must have told you about that. I picked her brains, I didn't realize you and she… I'm

    sorry.'

    'Don't give it a thought," said Tony, pouring her some

    more sloe gin.

    'No more Stilton, Fred-Fred,' chided Valerie. 'What a lovely

    meal, Monica.'

    'Taggie O'Hara did the whole thing,' said Monica. 'I can't thank you enough for putting me on to her. She's going to fill up the deep freeze before the children come home at half-term.'

    Valerie, who was feeling a little out of things because everyone was laughing at Freddie's jokes, turned to the Duke. After two glasses of claret she'd be calling him your grouse

    in a minute.

    'We have a lovely home,' she said complacently. 'Green Lawns. I hope we shall receive you there one day. The Hunt was supposed to gather there on New Year's Day. Do you ride

    to hounds?'

    'Well, a bit,' said the Duke, who had his own pack.

    'Freddie's been asked to hunt with the Belvoir. That's the smartest pack in the country,' boasted Valerie.

    Everyone except Valerie knew that Belvoir was not pronounced as it was spelt. Everyone except Tony was well-bred enough to keep their traps shut. Buy Tony was fed up with her stupid chatter.

    'If you were really smart, Valerie, you wouldn't call it Belvoir. It's pronounced Beaver.'

    There was an embarrassed pause.

    'How long have you lived in Gloucestershire?' asked the Duke, who was a kind man.

    The women went off to various loos. Freddie went off to take a telephone call from Tokyo.

    'What a very amusing fellow Freddie Jones is,' said the Lord-Lieutenant.

    'And very very bright,' said Tony. 'That's why I need him on my Board. Cable and Satellite isn't just about technology or delivery systems, you know; it's about marketing programmes. Freddie's a genius at marketing. Shame we couldn't include his jumped-up bitch of a wife as part of the bag.'

    'Not on a cocks-only day,' said Bas.

    Everyone laughed.

    The guns were waiting to start off for the last two drives of the day. Freddie was still on the telephone to Tokyo. Valerie was admiring the azaleas in Monica's conservatory.

    It was unfortunate that when Freddie came into the hall he found Sarah Stratton in Valerie's deerstalker giggling frantically and brandishing Valerie's tan mackintosh cape, at which Basil was pretending to charge like a bull.

    'Ole,' said Tony, who was grinning in the doorway.

    'It's selling laike hot gateaux,' squealed Sarah. Then, seeing Freddie, she went very pink and asked him if he thought the deerstalker suited her.

    At that moment Valerie came into the hall.

    'You look delaightful,' she said excitedly. 'I've got identical ones in stock. I'll set one asaide for you.'

    'I really feel I've made a breakthrough with Sarah Stratton,' Valerie kept telling Freddie as they drove home.

    Having done her stuff in the morning and during lunch, Monica felt justified in staying behind in the afternoon and doing some gardening. Before she got stuck into pruning, she popped into the kitchen to thank Taggie, but found her looking absolutely miserable standing on one leg.

    'What on earth's the matter?' said Monica, alarmed. 'Everything was wonderful.'

21

    Tony couldn't directly blame Declan for Freddie Jones's defection, but he blamed him for everything else: for inciting rebellion in the newsroom with his subversive lefty attitudes, for egging Charles Fairburn on to put in larger and larger expenses, for Cameron's bad temper which was no doubt caused by Declan's handsome son Patrick, for Declan's trouncing of Maurice Wooton, which had made Tony so anxious to get Freddie on the Board and waste so much time and money wooing him, only to be rejected.

    It was generally agreed at Corinium that Tony had never sustained a mood of utter bloody-mindedness for quite so long, and the only way Declan could redeem himself would be to crucify Rupert Campbell-Black when he interviewed him on St Valentine's Day a

    massacre Declan looked forward to with grim relish.

    As he researched the programme, Declan found himself increasingly fascinated by the complexities of Rupert's character. He was obviously very good at his job. The Ministry for Sport, when Rupert was offered it, had been merely a PR post, answerable to the Ministry of the Environment, with the Home Office dealing with any major disasters like football riots.

    Rupert, however, had refused to take on the job unless he was given sole responsibility for all sport in the country and any trouble that ensued. The gamble paid off. He had had

    spectacular success in curbing football hooliganism, he had raised a vast amount of money for sport, particularly the next Olympics. He had had rows with the Teachers' Unions over the decline of competitive sport in schools, with the Football Association, rows with fellow ministers, even rows with the PM. But he got things done and he cut through waffle. Utterly sure of his own judgement, he was sometimes too arrogant, and, having been a great athlete himself, he tended to side with the players rather than the management, but when he went against officials it was always because he'd discovered a weakness in their argument. He was extremely lucky in Gerald Middleton, his private secretary.

    Declan also noted Rupert's appallingly deprived childhood, not of material things, but of love and stability. His beautiful mother was on her fifth marriage. His father's fourth marriage had just come unstuck. Then there was his taking over of the family home at Penscombe, with its four hundred acres, when he was only twenty-one and just making the big time in show-jumping, and soon having it running at a thumping profit. There were the frequent rumblings in the press about his cruelty to his horses, or at least ruthlessly overjumping them. There was the compulsive womanizing that hardly stopped with marriage or divorce. Even today, when he should be setting a good example, far too many women appeared only too anxious to say 'Yes Minister.'

    Declan had spoken to Rupert's best friend, Billy Lloyd-Foxe, now Head of Sport at the BBC, who had nothing but praise for the way Rupert had helped him in the past, curing him of alcoholism and virtually saving his marriage. He also talked to Malise Gordon, Rupert's old chef d'equipe, now married to Rupert's ex-wife Helen, who said Rupert's urge to win was the strongest motivating force in his character. 'Whatever he does, he'll get to the top.' He talked to numerous exes, who all described Rupert as impossible but irresistible, not least because he made them laugh, and to several cabinet ministers, who spoke of him with respect rather than affection.

    Everyone cited Rupert's phenomenal energy. After the

    punishing hours of show-jumping he took the gruelling work load of Sports Minister in his stride. Accustomed to adulation and easy conquest on the show-jumping circuit, he had been unaffected both by the reverence and sycophancy which surrounds MPs and the brickbats thrown at them by the press and in the House. Because he was fearless and not short of money, he made a surprisingly good MP, happy to kick up a fuss on behalf of his constituency whenever necessary. Chalford and Bisley were proud. Once again Rupert had put them on the map.

    This, therefore, was the man that Declan read every word written about and became obsessed with as he strode through the frozen Gloucestershire valleys, or tossed and turned in his bed at night. This was the man, he thought, as he worked out his questions, with a black, churning, sickening hatred, who could at any moment take Maud or Taggie or even Caitlin off him. On the surface Maud seemed to have got over her passion for Rupert. She had discovered Anthony Powell's novels, and was steadily reading her way through the twelve volumes of A Dance to the Music of Time, aided by rather too much whisky of an evening. She was very listless, but this could be attributed to the length and severity of the winter. She showed no interest in his interview with Rupert.

    St Valentine's Day dawned, causing the usual flutter of excitement at Corinium Television, and giving hernias to the postmen staggering up Cotchester High Street under sackfuls of coloured envelopes.

    None of these envelopes, however, were addressed to Cameron. Not that she really noticed. Since she'd taken over Simon Harris's job, she was working herself into the ground.

    Not only was she still producing Declan and overseeing the production of a new series of 'Four Men went to Mow', but she was now in sole charge of Corinium Programmes, and seemed to spend her time scheduling, commissioning, arguing about budgets, or going to meetings with other Programme Controllers in London.

    Patrick bombarded her with increasingly anguished letters to which she didn't reply. Only that morning he'd sent her a huge Valentine bunch of lilies of the valley at home.

    Darling Cameron [said the accompanying letter], I am going into a decline. Decline O'Hara. I've lost so much weight my friends are convinced I've got AIDS. Having been told by you to make something of my life, you will be pleased that I have given up drink (almost) and am writing my play and working hard. The play is no longer about British intimidation in Ireland, but about a;young boy in love with an older woman, who can't tear herself away from an absolute bastard. Don't worry about libel, I've given Lord Bad Hat red hair. I suppose I ought to thank you for making me experience unhappiness in love. Did you know James Joyce actually encouraged his wife to have affairs, so he could find out what it was like to be a cuckold?

    'Jim' (isn't that a ghastly letdown), wrote Mrs Joyce, 'wants me to go with other men, so he can write about it.' Stupid pratt, he couldn't have loved her.

    My mother says my father is incredibly ratty. Are things going very badly at Corinium? Before you tear this letter up, remember it will be worth something one day, and might well keep you in lonely old age, when your ancient lover, Baddingham, has croaked. I love you and remain in darkness, Patrick.

    As she left for the office, Cameron put the lilies of the valley outside the back door in case Tony came home with her after Declan's programme. Not that that was likely. Their relationship had deteriorated. They fought less, but formerly their rows had been the snapping of foreplay. Now when Tony made love to her there was a brutality and coldness never there before.

    To make matters worse, Sarah Stratton, in all her radiant beauty, had joined Corinium as a prospective presenter, and her pussy-cat smile, her blonde halo of hair, her soft angora bosom and her wafts of Anais Anais, had affected the men in the building like Zuleika Dobson. James Vereker, wearing

    a different pastel pullover every day and behaving like a lovesick schoolboy, had been nicknamed Hanker-man by the newsroom. The Head of News was taking the task of initiating Sarah very seriously indeed. Even Tony chose every opportunity to see if she was all right, summoning her to drinks in his office after work, or to join board-room lunches to impress visiting bigwigs. Cameron consequently got more histrionic and ratty with the staff.

    'If Simon and Cameron are anything to go by,' observed Charles Fairburn, 'control is the one ingredient unnecessary for the job of Controller of Programmes.'

    James had so many Valentines he decided to do a little item on 'Cotswold Round-Up' to thank his fans and conduct a studio discussion as to whether men were more romantic and caring than they used to be. Sarah received one Valentine card postmarked Penscombe with no writing inside. Having never had a letter from Rupert, she couldn't be sure the flashy blue scrawl on the envelope was his, but she was almost certain. Declan's Valentines arrived by the sackful, but he was too preoccupied with Rupert to open them.

    Taggie had a trying day. No one sent her any Valentines. She was doing dinner for the Lord-Lieutenant that evening and had made a huge ratatouille and left it to cool overnight in the larder, only to find that Declan had put the whole lot out on the lawn for the badgers, who'd refused to touch it. Declan's only distraction these days, apart from bird-watching, was putting food out at night and crouching in a dimly-lit kitchen waiting for the foxes and badgers to turn up.

    Now he was roaring round the house in bare feet, complaining once again that his utterly bloody children had swiped every single one of the da-glo cat-sick yellow socks that he had made so fashionable. Looking for a pair under Caitlin's bed, he found a vodka bottle, empty except for a cockroach, and said once again that they really must sack Grace.

    'Absolutely not,' said Maud firmly. 'I need my Greek chorus.'

    Declan was just leaving for the studios, weighed down with poisoned rapiers to stick into Rupert, when Taggie came rushing into the kitchen, speechless with excitement and brandishing a vast Valentine covered in hearts, which

    had just arrived by special delivery, and which played 'The

    White Cliffs of Dover' on the xylophone every time you opened it.

    'What the hell's that?'

    'It's from Rupert. He's sent Gertrude a Valentine.'

    'Whatever for?' snapped Maud.

    'He once said she was ugly. He must have changed his mind. How gratuitously' Taggie

    brought out her word for the day in triumph 'kind

    of him.'

    'Bloody hell,' thought Declan as he went out into the dank February drizzle. 'Not content with groping Taggie and ensnaring Maud, he's now trying to seduce my dog.'

    Taggie ran after him. 'You won't give Rupert too hard a time, will you?'

    Throughout the network Declan's interview with Rupert had been trailed every hour on the hour during the day. Make-up had drawn lots as to who was to attend to him. Declan tried to snatch a quiet couple of hours in his office sharpening his poisoned rapiers, but was interrupted by one member of staff after another trooping in to grumble about Tony.

    'He bollocked me for not giving the reps extra bonuses in January,' said Georgie Barnes, the Sales Director. 'If I had, he'd have bollocked me for squandering Corinium's resources. '

    'Last week he shouted at me because my desk was a mess,' moaned Cyril Peacock. 'So I had a big tidy out. Then, when he came in this afternoon and found me with an empty desk, he bawled me out for doing nothing.'

    Charles Fairburn was furious because, for the seventh week running, his request for a hundred pounds to replace the fur hat Seb Burrows had put on the Corinium Ram at Christmas had been crossed off his expenses.

    Sarah Stratton, wearing a clinging pale-grey angora dress,

    sat in the newsroom with the Head of News who was showing off his muscle by demanding why the BBC had had a story at lunchtime which his reporters had missed.

    'Of course "Cotswold Round-Up" is the company's flagship, ' he told Sarah. 'We lose or retain the franchise according to whether or not the programme truly represents local news and views. We have to be consistent, questioning, responsible and entertaining. It's the one area where interference from Cameron or Tony isn't tolerated. The autonomy of the newsroom is undisputed.'

    Beside him the internal telephone rang. Taking his hand off Sarah's knee, the Head of News picked up the receiver and turned pale.

    'Of course, Lord B. I quite understand. I'll put someone on the story right away."

    Sarah smiled into her paper cup and said nothing.

    On the air now, James Vereker, having thanked all his fans ver' ver' much for their caring Valentines, was interviewing a local witch who'd just made a record. She was wearing a black mini and crinkled black boots, and had huge bare mottled thighs which she kept crossing and re-crossing so James could see everything.

    'I'm sure you're a very caring person, Tamzin,' said James, averting his eyes, 'but don't you think the general public has a rather more sinister idea of witches?'

    'Turn him into a toad,' screamed Seb Burrows in the newsroom, throwing a paper dart at the screen.

    'Wish she'd make an effigy of Tony and stick pins into it,' said Charles Fairburn.

    'We could market a Baddingham pin cushion,' said Seb. 'It'd sell even better than Declan T-shirts.'

    Sarah wasn't listening. Rupert will be here soon, she thought. She'd warned Paul she might be late, because Tony wanted her to help at some PR party. Tony, in fact, had asked her up to the board room to watch Rupert's interview and impress a couple of big advertisers. Rupert was bound to pop in after the programme.

    I know he sent me the Valentine, thought Sarah, wriggling in ecstasy. He must want to come back.

    Rupert, in fact, had had a very tough day. He had had an acrimonious meeting with the UEFA Committee, who were still refusing to let English soccer teams play in Europe next season. He'd had to smooth over the scandal of a Chinese ping-pong player caught shoplifting in an Ann Summers sex shop. He'd tried to persuade the Advertising Institute that there was no very good reason why a large condom manufacturer shouldn't sponsor the Rugby League Cup Final next year, and coped with the Health Authority up in arms because a famous racing driver had gone on 'Wogan' in a Marlboro T-shirt. Because all these meetings ran late, he had only had half an hour to harangue a group of headmasters on the decline of competitive sport in schools, which had been exacerbated by the teachers' strike.